"Motivated Individuals" is a story by Nick Fuller Googins from the latest issue of The Southern Review. Nick Fuller Googins has been published in Ecotone and Narrative, and his fiction has been read on All Things Considered. He recently finished writing his first novel.

Brettwascrashingwithmewhilehewasonthelamaftersucker-punching aRepublican.Youprobablythinkharboringafugitiveisexciting,butit’snot halfasthrillingasitsounds.ThefirstcoupledayswesluggedHighLife,watched a ten-part documentary on the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, and reminisced about theglorydays:theantiwarrallies,Occupy,ourskirmisheswiththecampuspolice. Whenweranlowonmemories,Itaughthimcribbage,butheaccusedmeofletting him win and that spelled the end ofthat.

The sucker punch, as I’m sure you’re wondering, occurred by the Boston Common. Brett had been canvassing, collecting signatures and raising money for Citizens Combating Climate Change, when the Republican challenged him, claiming global warming was a hoax. Dude collapsed like a suit slipping from a hanger. Brett’s words, not mine.

ByshelteringBrettIwassacrificingotherthings,too.Mysolitude,forone.Labor DaypassesonMartha’sVineyardandallthesefabuloussummerhomesaresuddenlybeggingformotivatedindividualstocrawlthroughabasementwindow,flip thecircuitbreaker,andturnonthewater.AniftylittlezineI’dsavedfromOccupy detailedthemove-inprocess,stepbystep,illustrationsandall.ThehouseIchose wassetfarbackfromtheroad,wellhiddenbythicketsofsweet-smellingrosebushes and apple trees. It sat against the bluffs, overlooking the harbor. Worn wooden stepsledtoapebblyshore.Mornings,Isippedcoffeeontheporch,listenedtothe gulls caw, and watched the ferry dock. I messed around with a guitar I found in a closet. I admired the dental health of the Vandenwalkers, whose family photographs covered the walls. I hid when the Vandenwalker caretaker came to jiggle the doorknobs and mow the lawn. I meditated. Meditation, my second-favorite therapistatNewPathwayshadencouragedmetobelieve,washelpfulforfiguring thingsout.MostlywhenImeditated,Inapped.Napshelped,too.

ImightaswellconfessthatI’dfallenintoanembarrassingdepressivefunkawhile back.TheimportantthingtoknowisthatIwasturningthecorner.Thisquietperiod ontheVineyardwasmybig“getting-back-on-my-feettime.”That’showIdescribed it to my brother when he dropped me off at the ferry: no phone, no Internet, just me,myself,andI.ButthenhehappenedtobeoncallatMassGeneralwhenBrett raninwithhisbusted,sucker-punchinghand,andalthoughI’dbeggedmybrother nottotellanyonewheretofindme,youknowhowoldersiblingscanbe.Sonow Brettwashereandprivacywasnotsomethingherespected.Aninventionofcapitalism,hecalledit,alongwithmonogamyandMother’sDayandbulldogpurebreds andahostofothertopicsIwasnolongerasinterestedindiscussingasIhadbeenin college.Hepriedintomysolitudelikeitwashisjob.Iwasn’teatingenoughgreens, hetoldme.Ishouldbeexercising,hesaid.Couldn’tIplaysomethingmoreupbeat ontheguitar?Andhowmanynapsdidagrownmanhonestlyneedinoneday?

“It’s called meditation,” I said.

“I can hear you snoring,” he said.

Worst of all, Brett was ruining my Mandy plans. For weeks I’d been working up the guts to invite her over. We’d play cribbage, strum guitar, stretch out on the carpet with the door cracked to enjoy a slice of bluff and moonlit harborand whateveractivitiesmightlogicallyfollow.Now,ofcourse,Ididn’tdare.Brett,in additiontohisdreamyfugitiveescapades,hadgreeneyesanddarkhairandwhat everyone agreed were incredible cheekbones, plus the build of a former NCAA athlete, which he was. He’d played baseball freshman year, before discovering Chomsky.Bigpointswiththesororityandactivistgirlsalike.

“Don’t broaden them too far.” She fluttered her eyelids and shot me her look, the one that made my throat sort of strangle itself.

It hadn’t always gone so smoothly with Mandy. My first week on the island, I’ddiligentlyavoidedherregister.Howdoesonetalktosupercutecashierinaway thatdoesn’tbetrayone’sfearoftalkingtosupercutecashier?ItwasaZenkoan,an unanswerableriddle,thekindofthingIcould’vemeditatedonforeverifMandy wasn’t so superfreakingcute. Back when I’d finally mustered the courage to approachher,Iwentwith,“Coolink,whatisit?”

Sheheldoutherforearm.“Acyborgvagina.Isn’titobvious?”

“Extremely obvious,” Isaid.

She smiled and bagged my High Life on the sly without passing it over the scanner.

Sincethatfirstexchangewe’dgottentoknoweachotherinsnippets.Shelearned aboutmycollegeactivistdays,my“house-sitting”gig,myphysicianassistantof anolderbrother.Ilearnedthatshesufferedfromboutsofclinicalboredom,lived with two girls from high school she didn’t especially like, and had grown up an only child. Neither of us were on great terms with our folks. Mine worked for a right-wingsuperPACthatrepresentedeverythingwrongwiththeworld.Mandy’s mother had moved with a boyfriend to North Dakota for the shale oil boom. Her father was MIA. After high school she’d enrolled at Cape Cod Community College,butseasicknessmadetheferrycommuteamess.She’dsincetransferred toMandyState,meaningshetaughtherselfonlineandatthelibrary,majoringin environmental sciences with a minor in romancenovels.

Hertattoo,Ishouldmention,wasnotacyborgvagina.Itwasaflower—Queen Anne’s lace, she said—drawn in thin lines of blue-black ink, which matched the colorofhereyes,whichmatchedthecolorofherhair,whichsheworeintwolong braids that always seemed a little wet, as though she’d jumped in the oceanright before work. Just a few Mandy details I adored. Others included that she wasn’t freakishly skinny and that she hardly wore any makeup (even though hercheeks werealittleroughfromoldteenageacne)andthatshetalkedbacktohermanager. Big points all around. And then there were the white ribbons of scar tissue that her Queen Anne’s lace did not fully conceal. The scars ran from her wrist to the crook of her elbow and they told me that we shared something in common: we could both be hard onourselves.

“Hard saying, not knowing,” he whispered. We were huddled in the upstairs closet, hiding from the caretaker as he made his weekly inspection and mowed the lawn. “Maybe Canada? Or Mexico, for the weather? Or what about Cuba? Seriously, Teddy, what if we went to Cuba?”

I recognized all the signs. Spanish Civil War documentary behind us, he tried tokeepbusywithanexerciseroutine—push-ups,wallsquats,heevenluggedrocks from the shore for bicep curls—but he was losing it. I’d return from Rainbow GardenstofindsheetsrumpledinbedroomsI’ddeclaredoff-limits.MangledHigh Life cans on the back porch, their aluminum twisted into weird spirals. Lateone nightIheardawetthwackingsoundthatcutabovetheroarofthesurf.Istuck myheadoutthewindow.Bretthadapileofapplesfromthetreesattheproperty’s edge and a softball bat from theshed.

“What are you doing?”

He looked up at me through the moonlight like I was the one standing at the bluff in his underpants. “Batting practice,” he said. “Want in?”

“Boredom, ocean acidification, sharks,” Mandy said when I asked what kepther up atnight.

“Sure, but what about a cause?” I was bagging while she scanned. “What one big fight would amp you the most?”

“Easy. Global warming.”

Iperkedup.“DidItellyouIchainedmyselftoanExxonrefineryvalveincollege?”

“You did.AndItoldyouthatcivildisobedienceiswaysexy.”

You’d think a compliment of such caliber would be a big high five to my ego, anditwas,butatthesametimeIhadavisionofBrettcasuallyflexinghisbruised hand,tellingMandyabouthisworkwithGreenpeace,theCCCC,theRepublican whocollapsedlikeasuitslipping ...

“Brett dove into the job of saving the world. He converted the dining room to his office,leavingonlytofryupseitansteaksorpumpoutasetofbicepcurls.”

“Amanda?” her manager called from behind a magazine rack. “Don’t forget to clean the cold cases before you clock out.”

“Chill, Dennis, I’m engaging a loyal customer.” She threw me a wink.

“Whatkillsmeisthatsomepeoplestillbelieveglobalwarming’sahoax,”Isaid. “Nonbelievers should be knocked over thehead.”

The potency turned out to be great. Forests and stone walls blurred pleasantly by.Enyasangfromthestereolikeapro.WewerewindingthroughtheVineyard’s woodsy belly, Mandy navigating the bends and narrow roads she’d known since childhood.

“What’s it like living on an island your whole life?” I asked.

“We all live on islands, Theodore,” she said, speaking in a pretty convincing German accent that made me laugh. She was still wearing her purple Rainbow Gardens apron. How freaking adorable?

She had me jump out to unlatch a gate. A gravel road took us past a sagging barnanddownahill.Sheparked,wehikedupagrassydune,andtherewerethe cliffs, striped in hues of salmon and quartz, bending around the island’s western tip. A jumble of boulders littered a crescent of beach. The foaming surf. We sat on a driftwood bench. The sun was bright, the wind brisk but not cold. A bag of CheetosemergedfromMandy’sapronpocket.Sheopenedandhandedmethebag beforehelpingherself,whichconfirmedeverythingIsuspectedaboutthekindof person shewas.

Thesuckandsighoftheocean.Thesmellofsaltandartificialcheese.Weturned our fingers orange and took in the scenery. It felt pretty unreal. I wasn’t aboutto break the spell. Mandy licked a finger and pointed to a brick lighthouse perched on thecliffs.

“Somepeoplesayweshouldjustworkonbeingpresentandpositive,”Ioffered, butevenasIchanneledmyinner–NewPathways,IpicturedthemilesofVineyard shoreline that the rising Atlantic had swallowed since my burnout—everything I had not been doing for the planet—and it occurred to me: If everyone’s being present, who’s looking after thefuture?

“But personally, I think we should attack the root problem,” I said.

Mandy scooted down the log so our knees touched. This probably doesn’t sound like a big deal to you, but keep in mind I hadn’t enjoyed a surplus of romantic contactinalongwhile.Shelookedatmewithshiningeyes.“That’swhatI’msaying—everyoneshouldbechainingthemselvestorefineries!Weneedtokeepthe shitintheground.Like,whyaren’tpeopleblowinguppipelines?”

“I’m just proposing a plan,” I said. “There must be loads of people willing to throw down for the planet, only they need a leader, someone to strike the first match. Shit’s gotta start somewhere. Why not here? Why not now?”

“You sound like Rage Against the Machine,” Brett said.

OfcourseIdid.I’dlovedRagesincemiddleschool.Bretthad,too.Hewasjust being antagonistic. He’d accosted me the second I walked in the door: Where hadIbeenallafternoon?WhydidIsmelllikepot?HadIrememberedtopickup spinachandtempehbacon?Hesaidhewasworried,butreally,hewashungry.A tempehbaconspinachsalad,aslug-a-glugofHighLife,andhewarmedrightup. Of course he did. When had Brett ever been happier than organizing to occupy the dean’s office, to block an army recruiting table, to march against the campus police?

AsmilespreadacrossBrett’sface.Thepoorguy.Itwasalmosttooeasy.Igave him three days before he’d be too amped to lounge around the Vineyard another second. A week,tops.

“Tooldfriends,”hesaid,crackingtwoHighLifes.“Tooldfriendshelpingeach other help theworld.”

We cheersed to that.

*

Brett dove into the job of saving the world. He converted the dining room to his office,leavingonlytofryupseitansteaksorpumpoutasetofbicepcurls.Hehad me run laps to the library for atlases, chemistry books, civil engineering manuals. Surrounded by maps and schematics, we brainstormed locations, materials, contingencyplans.IdevisedablueprintforaniftylittleDIYdetonator. We traded notes,manifestos,mediastrategies.Andyouknowwhat?Itwasfun,collaborating withBretttooutlineahypotheticalguerrillawaragainstfossilfuels.Hisenthusiasm wascontagious.Iwasalmostgoingtomisstheguy.

“Sometimes while meditating it occurred to me that I’d motivated Brett to continue fighting the good fight, and I’d motivated Mandy to finally leave Martha’s Vineyard, and if this was all I’d been put on earth to do, I wasOKwiththat.”

While he obsessed over his project, Mandy took me to Lucy Vincent Beach, Chappaquiddick, a secret kettle pond in the West Chop Woods—all her favorite places. She liked seeing the Vineyard with fresh eyes, she said. She had fun adventuring with me because I was interested and I listened and I packed whatshe calleda“Goldilocks”bowl:nottoodense,nottooloose—justright.

Mandy kicked a stick into the pond. I knew I’d made a mistake when she scrunched her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Never mind. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“Who’s crying?” she said, wiping tears from her pockmarked cheeks.

“Definitely not me,” I said, my mirror neurons turning the woods all blurry.

We walked the path, crunching leaves underfoot. I held her hand and she squeezedback.ItoldherwhatmyfavoriteNewPathwaystherapistgavemepermissiontotellpeoplewhoasked,whichwasthatnotalldecisionsaremadefrom choices.Manydecisionsaremadefromfeelings—feelingssostrongthatthereis zero room forchoice.

“That blows,” Mandy said, rubbing her arm over her sweat shirt, tracing her tattooorherscars,Icouldn’ttellwhich.“Iwantroomforchoice.Iwanttobeable to choose to do something good that actuallymatters.”

On one hand you had the crumbling Gay Head Cliffs and our beautiful dying planet, and yes, fighting to save all this was definitely the most important thing, blah-blah-blah,andnonbelieversdeservedanynumberofwolverinestothehead. Butholdinghandsaroundakettlepondastheleavesfellwasalsothemostimportantthing,andanyonewhodidn’trealizethisdeservedthecrashlandingtheyhad coming,believeme.Thetrick—Godknowshow—wasaimingforbothatonce.

Mandy wiped her eyes. “You want to know what it’s like to live on an island your whole life? Everyone is an alcoholic or an addict or clinical and it makesit impossibletopretendyou’renot.Ihavetogetoffthisplace.”

This seemed like the natural time to apologize for bringing up her scars and ruining the kettle pond vibe, but it also seemed like the natural time to kiss her, so I did.

“Wowzers,” she said. “Finally. Now I only have to wait, what—five years for tongue?”

She leaned against a tree trunk and smiled. I don’t think I’d ever felt so good aboutmyselforlifeingeneral.Forthefirsttimeinages,Iknewexactlywhattodo.

I found him out back by the bluff, shirtless, even though it had to be sweater weatheratbest.“Teddy,justintime.”Hewasworkingatangleofwiresoverabucket.

I sniffed the air. “Is that gasoline?”

His grin told me it was. “I drained the lawn mower.”

“Why would you do that?”

“To test your detonator.”

He’d followed my blueprint, wrapping wires from a clock radio around afilamentthathe’dextractedfromanincandescentlightbulb.Whenthealarmtripped, insteadoftriggeringtheradio,thecurrentwouldflowthroughthefilament,burning it red-hot. A simple design, built from common household objects, easily replicablefortheearth-lovingmasses.Thatwastheidea,intheory.Brettbalanced the contraption on the bucket’s edge, set the alarm, and we backed away. I’d be lyingifIsaidIwasn’tdisappointedwhennothinghappened.

We looked at each other and said—more or less at the same time—“We need to talk.”

Brett beat me to it. He threw an arm over my shoulder. “It’s a sign” he said, pointing to my failed detonator. “We should start smaller.”

“Smaller?”

“We can blow up pipelines later. First we need to organize the base. Which we can’t do from an island. Time to take this party to the mainland.”

I nodded and sighed, a deep sound meant to conceal my relief that Brett was finally ready to leave.

I calmly explained that while I supported his need to actualize, I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Bro,youcan’tstayhereforever,”hesaid.

“Bro, neither can you,” Isaid.

“Teddy?”

Wewhirled.OnthebackporchstoodMandy.Inonehand,thesix-packofHigh Life I’d stupidly left in her car. In the other, a sheaf of plans from Brett’s dining room office. She’d let herself in through the kitchen. She did not look overly at ease.Itdidn’thelpthatmydetonatorchosethismomenttotrip.Withasizzlethe filament burned orange and ignited the gasoline fumes. The bucket sputtered up inflames,thoughsortof lamely. Morelikeamildcampfirethanabomb.

“Welcome to our humble seaside abode,” Brett said, introducing himself with a bow. Given the circumstances, you had to admire his composure.

Mandy stared at his abs as he pulled on a T-shirt. Her eyes flashed from the slogan across his chest (citizens combating climate change) to our bucket (still aflameandbeginningtomelt)tome(abouttoblackout).Shetookabackwardstep.

“Thisisweird,Teddy.Yousaidyouwerehouse-sittingalone.”

Istammered.“Iwas.Iwassupposedtobe.”

The ferry tooted its horn from the harbor. She took another step back.

“He’s covering for me,” Brett said, flexing his hurt hand like a martyr. “I’m a fugitive.”

Mandyhadbailed.She’dlefttheHighLifeontheporch.Brett’splans—our plans—were blowing across the lawn. We scrambled before the wind couldpull them over the bluff.

*

Brett’s packed duffel was in the kitchen the next morning. I did not beg him to unpack.Whenthetimecame,Iwalkedhimdownthedriveway.Hewascatching thenoonferry.Offtosparktheecologicalrevolution,hesaid.Hadtostartsomewhere.Maybenotexactlylikewe’dsketched,butanythingwasbetterthannothing. Hewasamped,allbadmojobetweenthetwoofusapparentlyforgotten.

“Good luck,” I said, sticking out my hand.

He pulled me in for a hug. “Thanks for the vacation, Teddy. I needed it. Take care of yourself.” He slapped me hard on the back so I’d know he meant it.

“I will,” I said, slapping him harder.

“Sorry about Mandy,” he said.

“Super not your fault.”

Hesteppedback,flexinghishandinanabsent,nostalgicway.“Teddy?”

“Brett?”

“Can I bum a twenty for the ferry?”

ThenextdayImarchedintoVineyardHaventoexplainmyselftoMandy.The problemwasthatMandyhadquit.She’dlefttovisithermother,hermanagersaid. One of the Dakotas. He couldn’t rememberwhich.

Myfirstshiftwaszerofun,wakingupsoearly,butbydaytwoIalreadyenjoyed being out of the house before noon. The work was easy, familiar. Istoodwhere Mandyhadstood,workingheroldhoursatheroldregister,possiblyevenwearing her old purple apron, who knew? If it sounds a little stalkerish, don’tworry,it’s notlikeIwascreepingthedocks,craningmyneckforaglimpseofhercomingoff the ferry. That I could do with binoculars from the privacy of my bluff.

It camedowntothis:Ihadtoapologizeto Mandy. IneededtoshowherthatI wasn’tlikeeveryoneelseonherisland.I’dmadesomechanges.Sheneededtoknow thatIwasjoggingaroundthekettlepondnow,andliftingwithBrett’srocks,and takingbattingpractice.I’dbecomethetypeofpersonwhomadeandatesalads.I hadajob.Iplayedhappy,major-chordsongsonguitar.Imeditated,awake,reflecting on all my great progress. Sometimes while meditating it occurred to me that I’d motivated Brett to continue fighting the good fight, and I’d motivated Mandy to finally leave Martha’s Vineyard, and if this was all I’d been put on earth to do, I wasOKwiththat.ButIwasn’ttotallyOKwiththat.Because,wherediditleave me?Whowasgoingtoignitemyfuture?Shit’sgottastartsomewhere.Sure.But not on an island. Not bymyself.

Iwastakingbattingpracticeatthebluff,theoceanpinkedinsunset,whenacar pulled up the driveway. A door opened and closed. My heart ran a Keith Moon drumsolo,butassoonasMandyturnedthecornerofthehouse,Isawthatsecond chances weren’t in hereyes.

“Hi, Teddy.”

“Hey, Mandy.”

Shehadabagofgroceriesinonearm,greensspillingoutthetop,andaspace heater in the other. She set the heater on the porch. “It’s a good one,” she said. “Kept me warm for years. These summer homes aren’t insulated for shit. You’ll need itsoon.”

“You won’t be cold?” I asked.

“I’m moving. I have to. Some crazy immigrant to the island stole my job.”

Shemadeafacethatsuggestedwewerepartiallycool,butnotcoolenoughfor hertotellmewhereshewasmovingifIasked.Instead,Iexplainedthatafullyear andchangehadpassedsinceI’dwrittenmybrotheranoteandswallowedabottle of Percocet, but still I had a hard time processing what happened and coming to termswithmywonkyneurochemistryand,mostofall,knowingwhentotellpeople allthis,especiallypeopleIdidn’twanttopushaway.

Shefrowned.“Wintersarelonelyhere,Teddy.Youdon’thavetostay.Youcan go. You get to choose. Rememberthat.”

She gave me her groceries (she’d emptied her fridge) and a courtesy hug and thensheleft.NaturallyIfeltlikejumpingoffthebluff,butIwasmakinghealthier choicesthesedays,soafterwatchinghercardisappearIreturnedtobattingpractice. Batting practice helped. I swung my way through every last apple that the treeshaddropped,soggybitsexplodingintotheair.Istoodonthebluffuntilstars popped, then I went inside to tidy. I washed dishes and made beds and put away theguitar.Isweptandpackedmybagandcheckedthemorningferryschedule.I wroteathank-younotetotheVandenwalkers,complimentingtheirbrightsmiles. I plugged in the landline and dialed my brother. I was pretty sure he was on call, buthepickeduponthefirstring,asthoughhewaswaitingtohearfromme,which hewas.